Chapter Fifteen Sawyer
Chapter Fifteen
Sawyer
Despite waking up on Saturday morning groggy and fighting the bone-deep exhaustion that coffee barely touches, I force myself out of the apartment to try crossing another item off my list. The wet February weather has been putting a damper on my chance to look around and cross one of the most important items on my list off, thanks to the flooded roads and hiking trails, so I’m determined not to let another sunny day go to waste, no matter how tired I am or how desperately my body begs me to rest.
Adjusting my sunglasses to fight the beaming sun baking my skin, I glance at my phone’s GPS and follow its route to a nearby park in the Garden District.
I’m not sure if it’s Katrina, the chemo, or a combination of the two that makes everything look so different than it did when I was eight. I thought the world was so much bigger when I was little, but it’s changed. Now things are much smaller—more fragile. Like at any time, they can be taken away.
They can be, a voice whispers inside my head.
I ignore it.
There are little pieces of my memory that are still strong, like the beautiful architecture that the levees didn’t destroy after the storm ripped apart the state or the cultured atmosphere around every block that’s full of every kind of art and music you could think of. I remember the hope that filled the air when I was a kid and can see how much it blossomed when the nation backed the state when it was underwater.
Other memories remain fuzzy from the years I’ve been away. The smells. The food. I couldn’t tell you which house we used to live in without my parents’ help or even where the street is, but I remember the yellow bedroom that always made me happy when I woke up to it filled with sunlight peeking through the white curtains.
But one memory is clearer than ever.
The bridge.
My bridge, with the oak that shaded it and the myrtles and magnolias that encased it like a security blanket—a hidden world just for me and Paxton. Those few summer months were some of my favorite days because I finally had someone to share them with who wasn’t my mom or dad or one of the boring kids I went to school with. It was hard making friends when we always moved, so I didn’t even bother until the boy with thick glasses and a sense of adventure.
I thought about him a lot after we left, wondered if he still lived here. If he moved away. If his parents ever worked out their problems the way I hoped they would for him.
Eventually, my curiosity faded, and so did he.
Because I had other things to focus on.
When I pull my list out of my pocket, I run the pad of my thumb over the item that I put stars next to.
Find my happy place
I may not know exactly where it is, but I have a vivid memory of using a dull butter knife to mark it with my initials. I remember the myrtles. The sound of the running water from the little stream under the wood. The second I pushed those bushes out of the way to get to the quiet place that was ours and ours alone, I was calm.
I’d like to think that, after all this time, it’s still there. Maybe Paxton still goes there.
Or maybe that’s my wild imagination. Mom told me it was a useless venture because most of the area was wiped out after Katrina thanks to the failed levees, but my gut tells me I’ll find it.
Broken or not. It’s there.
Looking back, I wish I hadn’t snuck out to go to the bridge on my own because then I’d have a fighting chance at finding it with my parents’ memories. They always asked, always told me not to stray too far, but still let me go alone. I think they knew I would anyway. And looking back, I’m glad I had that independence while I could.
Despite the frustration of not knowing, not remembering, it’s all part of the adventure.
And after one Uber ride full of silence and tense driving on a crowded interstate, I’m at my second possible location. I spent the last week Googling all the different trails, hoping I’d see pictures of the familiar sights, but nothing came up. I’m pretty sure the bridge wasn’t too far from the house my family rented because it never took that long to ride my bike or walk there, but most of the time, my feet were tired and hurting by the time I got there. I used muscle memory back then. Unfortunately, a lot of that is gone after six rounds of chemotherapy and one round of radiation that left me lucky if I remembered to wear underwear.
The Garden District is one of the prettiest neighborhoods in New Orleans as far as I’m concerned and the best option I have for finding the bridge. Surrounded by old architecture and well-kept landscapes, I take in the aged willows covered in moss that line the roads and the streetcars passing by on St. Charles Avenue full of daily passengers.
In hindsight, I probably could have saved some money by getting a ride into New Orleans and taking the streetcar into the Garden District like I read online, but oh well.
Hiking the small backpack higher onto my shoulders, I study the map on my phone before clicking off the screen and walking.
I didn’t have a phone when I was eight, so I don’t need one now.
Except twenty-five minutes later, I’m on a street that looks a little less pretty than the rest of the area, my body aches from the exercise it’s not used to getting these days, save for my treks around campus or to the nearest fast-food chain, and my feet hurt. There are a few people lingering outside the homes that don’t look as cared for as the bigger ones on the main drag, all staring at me and saying God knows what, which produces the kind of laughter that makes goose bumps cover my arms. I look to the dogs chained and barking, ready to protect their owners and property, and decide to turn around before one of them breaks away.
Hurrying back in the direction I came from, I join a few other people who look like tourists sightseeing. Aimlessly, I follow them until they disappear into a bookshop, pointing at a window display of books about local history that are apparently signed by the author.
A headache starts tapping my temple, making my shoulders slump in disappointment.
Maybe my sense of adventure has dimmed since I was a kid because this always seemed a lot more fun when I was younger. Then again, it was the only freedom I had. The rest of the day, when I wasn’t at school, I was told to do my homework, eat my vegetables, and take Maggie out for a walk. Going out was my escape from the responsibilities that annoyed me as a child.
If you only knew how good you had it.
Now I regret ever complaining about the days when I had to do the bare minimum. And I also regret my choice of Converse, jeans, and a sweatshirt today because I’m achy, sweaty, and cranky.
Just as I’m about walk into the store—that’s hopefully got its air-conditioning on high—my phone starts ringing in my back pocket. I smile when I see Mom’s name, feeling a little comfort hearing her voice.
“Hi, pumpkin,” she greets. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I wanted to check in since we haven’t spoken all week.”
I step off to the side to let a few people pass by me on the sidewalk. I have been putting off our phone call because I’ve felt like crap for days. I knew the second she heard my voice, she’d freak out and assume the worst. “You’re not. I’m out looking around right now.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes, by myself. I’m safe.”
“Do you have your pepper spray?”
I frown, forgetting that they even got me that. Dad also bought me a purple stun gun. After showing me how to use it, charge it, and store it, he made sure I put it somewhere I’d have it at all times. Which is in my apartment, probably next to my pepper spray.
Whoops .
Hesitantly, I say, “Yes?”
Mom sighs. “Sawyer…”
“I forgot,” I admit. “I was excited to get out and enjoy the sunshine, but I promise I’m being safe. I’m sticking to the main roads where there are lots of people.”
“What happened to your friend? I thought she was going to go out with you. And make sure you wear sunscreen! You don’t want to get—”
“Skin cancer?” I snort, half amused. “I think I’ll be fine, Mom. And Dixie and I are hanging out tonight. We’re going to a party. And yes. There will be alcohol. No, I won’t be dumb.”
Probably.
She’s not stupid. She and Dad know I’m going to drink. I got drunk at the first party I attended in high school. I embarrassingly drunk dialed my mom and she showed up with Bentley in tow and all but dragged me out.
Too bad it hadn’t happened before I lost my virginity in the back of car and then got sick in front of everybody. Mom definitely wasn’t keen on letting me do much on my own after that. Not that it mattered. Life changed quickly not long after, putting a damper on my social life. The only people I was partying with for the years following were the doctors and nurses pumping me with cocktails of expensive medications.
Instead of lecturing me, she says, “Be careful.”
I smile, grateful she’s not telling me to stay home or going on about the effects of alcohol. “I will. How are things at home?”
Over the next few minutes, she tells me that Bentley tried out for the ski team, which is laughable. My brother plays video games and can barely walk in a straight line without hurting himself.
“It’s for a girl, right?” I guess. Why else would he sign up for something like that? “Because he always came home complaining about what the gym teacher used to make them do. Like run two laps.”
Mom laughs because she knows I’m right. “I didn’t ask him why he wanted to join. But if it is for a girl, or a boy, then maybe it’ll help him get out of his bubble. That kid is far too concerned with his games.”
Leaning against the side of the building, I watch a few dogs sniffing each other across the street. “And Maggie?”
“She misses you.” A pause. “We all do.”
Swallowing, I nod. “I miss you guys too. Have you heard from Dad? We talked the other day, but he had to go because there was some issue with one of the new recruits.”
Mom tells me about their last conversation, which mostly had to do with me. “He was going to ask if you wanted to meet up for lunch sometime. I think he wants to check in on you now that you’re closer.”
Most people would probably hate having their parents so close, but I spent most of my life hearing my father’s voice through a phone or video. Having him nearby is a nice change. “I’ll have to see when he’s free. There are a few things I have coming up on the weekends, but otherwise I should be around.”
Mom is quiet for a second. “What kind of plans do you have?”
She already knows there are things I want to do in my time here, but I never went into specifics. Who wants to talk about going to parties and hooking up with people to their parents? Nobody. Plus, it’s sad to admit that I’m planning on having sex. That sort of thing should probably be spontaneous, not something to cross off a to-do list.
But the longer I stay in my head, the more I want to go through with it. Casual. Easy. College is full of guys who are more than willing to be both, and my lips still tingle from the boy who I want nothing more than to be the one to help me.
I don’t tell her about that. “Oh, you know. Random stuff. Dixie and I are going to a few basketball games, and she wants me to go to some jazz museum with her.”
It’s not my scene, but it’s only fair that I do things she likes since I’m dragging her out with me.
“You at a basketball game?” The humor in her tone makes me smile. “I think I want a picture of that. Since when are my children into sports?”
“Isn’t college about trying new things?”
“It is, you’re right. Just remember,” she says, using her mom voice. “Be easy on yourself. I’m not only talking about at the party, but in general. I know how much you love being out, but you need to listen to your body.”
It’s like she knows I’m not at my best today. She used to call it momstincts—mom instincts.
You’ll understand when you become one, she’d tell me, brushing hair out of my face.
But we both knew that was merely optimism talking, not logic.
Lips twitching, I nod as if she can see me. “I know.”
I never told her about the nosebleed, or she would have freaked out. Like, “bought a plane ticket and shown up at my apartment” freaked out. I also haven’t told her that I wake up more times than not coughing up a lung. There’s a laundry list of things I’ve kept to myself and written off. I’m not going to do that to her.
I can make a million reasons why I keep getting nosebleeds and a million and one more excuses about everything else. It’s all the same.
Some people would call it denial.
I call it blissful ignorance.
“I mean it, Sawyer.”
Oh, God. I can hear the tone of her voice. “I know, Mom. I’ve been careful.”
“And you’ll let me know if you’re not?”
Swallowing, guilt seeps into my conscience. “I will,” I say, cringing at the lie that tastes bitter in my mouth.
After we say goodbye, I stare at the black screen before tucking my phone back into my pocket.
“Sounds like a serious conversation,” a familiar voice says.
My head bolts up, eyes locking on Banks. We haven’t seen each other since I kissed him yesterday, and I figured he was avoiding me again. Not the best reaction, but that was the risk I took by doing it.
Surprise has me straightening. “What are you doing here?”
Banks doesn’t look any different than he does when I see him on campus. Faded jeans that seem a little stained. A black sweatshirt. Dirty work boots. His brown hair is tousled, like he’s run his hand through it a few times. “My father lives nearby.”
“The professor?” I recall.
He nods, sticking his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “What about you?” It’s a casual question. No awkwardness from what transpired between us. His eyes go to the store. “Getting a book?”
“I got a little turned around,” I admit. “I wasn’t planning on stopping here, but…”
He looks around and then checks his watch. It looks expensive. Old. Sentimental, maybe? My father loves watches and has the kind of collection that most men would be jealous of.
“Is there somewhere you’re trying to get?” Banks asks.
Not wanting to explain the sentimentality of my bridge out of embarrassment, I shake my head. “I’m just looking around. Being a tourist for a day. I thought about doing a hike or something.”
I’ve been out once before trying and failing to find my happy place. Banks saw me in my outfit and assumed I was going for a run, and I didn’t correct him then, either. I was too invested in how his eyes had gone down the length of me in heated appraisal until my toes had curled in my shoes.
His eyes go back to his wrist, looking at the time before scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve got some time.”
Is he offering to show me around? “I don’t have a game plan. I was going to wander.”
“You shouldn’t,” he says. “Walking around here isn’t as bad as it could be in the French Quarter, but it’s still safer to be with somebody. There are areas nobody should be by themselves.”
My mom would like him.
Whoa. Scratch that. If I’m smart, Mom won’t know about him. Because then she’d have hope, and I’d hate to dash it.
“Do you have plans?” I ask. “I don’t want to keep you from anything, especially since you already hung out with me yesterday.”
His eyes flash, as if he’s reminded of how our night ended. “I’m not complaining about yesterday.”
It’s a cautious statement that says a lot without saying too much at all.
Confidence and maybe a little relief that I didn’t botch our budding friendship have me smiling. “Okay then.”
“No Dixie or Dawson today?”
I shake my head. Dixie was supposed to meet Dawson at the library. Since I haven’t heard from her all day, I’m assuming they’re there. “Nope. Just me.”
Once again, his eyes lazily study our surroundings before they drop to his watch. He must have somewhere to be, but before I can tell him I’ll be fine on my own, he says, “I’ve got time. If you’ll have me.”
If you’ll have me.
As if I’m going to tell him no.
And as he gestures for us to walk down the sidewalk, I wonder if he remembers what I told him last night. That should answer your question.
I guess only time will tell.
* * *
An hour into our impromptu walking tour, I say, “It must have been nice growing up here. You’re surrounded by beautiful buildings and history.”
It’s practically my dream. The house my parents rented on the outskirts of New Orleans all those years ago wasn’t nearly as pretty as the ones we’ve passed today.
Banks doesn’t seem that impressed though. “I like how quiet it is,” he agrees. “It’s a peaceful area for the most part. Which makes me wonder why you’re here. Most college kids gravitate toward the French Quarter. Ever heard of Bourbon Street?”
Of course I’ve heard of the party area. Who hasn’t? “What’s wrong with liking a little peace and quiet? You’re here.”
“I grew up here.”
“I grew up near the city,” I tell him. “There isn’t nearly as much peace there.”
“New York, right?”
All I do is nod as I examine the ivy lining the gates we pass.
“You must be close with your dad,” I comment after a while, looking around and wishing I’d brought my polaroid camera. It was a Christmas gift from my parents. Right before I left, my mom bought me a photo album to put all the pictures I took in. A book of memories, she called it.
I haven’t touched it because every time I look at the box, I wonder if Mom will be okay with the memories I collect.
Don’t think about it, I tell myself.
Banks doesn’t answer right away, making me glance in his direction. “We get along fine” is the answer he settles with.
I can’t tell if that’s a man answer or if there’s more to it. “Is it hard having him at the school?”
My neighbor, who has only pointed out a few buildings and celebrities’ homes along the way, shakes his head with his eyes facing forward. “We don’t cross paths much, so it’s not bad. It helps me pay for college, so I can’t complain.”
That must be nice. “My parents took out a loan for me to come here,” I admit. I still feel bad about it, considering how much debt I caused them. If it weren’t for Dad’s military benefits, we probably wouldn’t have made it out from under all the hospital bills. “The online university I went to wasn’t hard, but I didn’t exactly leave an A student. Scholarships were limited when I transferred my credits.”
Mom tried getting me to write an essay about my experience with lymphoma to help pay for school, but I refused. I’d felt like a walking sob story for long enough. Medical students would come and go during my time at the hospital, using me like a test dummy—hands-on experience for their own education. I didn’t want to use my plight for my own benefit.
So, much to her dismay, I opted for student loans. Which they inevitably took out for me because they didn’t want me struggling in the future.
I may be off treatment now, but I know I’m not out of the woods. I’ve spent years reading my body, knowing what symptoms mean I have to see a doctor again. My parents want a future for me that isn’t riddled with medical debt and unhappiness, but deep down, they know it’s almost impossible.
Denial.
My future and theirs are different, but I’ll let them live in their fantasy land for a little while longer because they’re letting me do the same. It’s the only way they can truly be happy, and I won’t take that away from them.
Not yet.
Lips tugging downward at the thought of what they’ll be like five years from now, I force myself to shake it off. I don’t expect either of them to understand my choices, just to accept them. And they have, reluctantly.
And what do they get in return?
I bump into Banks and bounce back, stumbling until his hand snakes around my arm for stabilization. “Whoa. You good?”
Cheeks heating when I realize I hadn’t paid attention to him stopping, I nod. “Sorry.”
“What were you thinking about?”
I try blowing it off. “Nothing. So where’s a good place to eat around here?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m hungry,” I counter.
Banks doesn’t stand down. “My mom’s eyes used to glaze over when she was sad. I saw it enough times before she left to know when somebody isn’t okay.”
I walk over to one of the iron fences and run my hands along each railing as we start moving again. “I was thinking about all the things my parents have done for me.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I loosen a tired sigh. “They’re going to be riddled with debt because I wanted to come here.”
“You can pay them back over time. It’s not the end of the world. A lot of loan offices have repayment plans that students use to work toward their loans. It isn’t like they’re going to be in debt forever.”
My shoulders tense. “Right,” I murmur, knowing that won’t be the case. “So your mom—”
“I don’t want to talk about my mom,” he cuts me off.
Wetting my lips, I nod once at his tense posture. “Okay.”
We keep walking until we get to a blue building that smells like seafood and stop right outside the doors.
“You kissed me last night,” Banks says.
I rub my arm and glance at the people walking across the street. “I thought you were going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
A thoughtful noise rises from him. “I should.”
I peek at him nervously, not sure if I should be hurt by that. Why would he want to pretend it never happened?
“But there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen,” he concludes, eyes dipping to my mouth.
A spark of victory has me standing straighter at his admission, and I’m this close to asking him the biggest favor ever. “Good to know.”
He watches me for a little while longer before ducking his chin. “Commanders is my favorite in the Garden District. Let’s go.”
I’m still standing right where he left me when he turns into the front entrance of the restaurant.
And I swear I see a small smirk that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing by teasing me.
Prick.
But I take the out and follow him in, not arguing when he chooses to order for us and pays.
It feels like a date.
Except we don’t put a label on it.
I think…I think that’s for the best.
Casual, I remind my heart.